


Poker Face

by La Reine Noire (lareinenoire)



Category: Twelfth Night - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drunkenness, Gen, Multi, Politics, Profanity, References to Drug Use, bad life choices, crackfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-26
Updated: 2010-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-14 03:17:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lareinenoire/pseuds/La%20Reine%20Noire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I just had to be Sebastian Messaline for an afternoon. How hard could it be?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poker Face

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kasuchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasuchi/gifts).



> A million thanks to my beta-reader G.

The phone was ringing.

 

 _You have got to be fucking kidding me_. James MacAvoy was feeding me chocolate strawberries and someone was trying to call me. I slammed my hand down on the nightstand, and groped until I found the cellphone currently vibrating like nobody's business. When I finally managed to grab it and hold it to my ear, I was growling.

 

"It is dark. That means it is before 6AM. What the hell is going on?"

 

"Vi! Thank _God_! I'm so sorry--I totally forgot about the time difference."

 

"Seb?!" It must be costing him a fortune. I decided I didn't care. "I repeat my question. What the hell is going on?"

 

"I'm...how do I put this? I need your help."

 

Of course he did. Of course he fucking did. Sebastian could never have _normal_ problems--it always had to be writing the skit that got the high school charity talent show cancelled or trying to bribe the TSA with a striptease.

 

"Look, Vi, I wouldn't ask if I had _any_ other choice, okay? I...look...I met someone."

 

"And I'm thrilled for you, Seb, but I don't think now is a good time--"

 

"His name is Anthony, he owns this adorable little gallery and coffee shop literally five minutes from the Rembrandtplein..."

 

Wait. _What_? "In _Amsterdam_?"

 

"Um. Yeah."

 

"Sebastian Messaline, aren't you supposed to be _here_ right now? In New York? Didn't you have an interview this afternoon that I was supposed to remind you about?" Sure, he'd asked me to remind him yesterday, but you'd think someone who needed to _leave the country_ would at least know why he was doing it.

 

"Yeah. About that..."

 

***

 

I was going to kill Sebastian. Slowly. With a spoon. "Because it's dull, you twit. It'll hurt more." The key to his apartment was exactly where he said it would be--behind the mailbox, between the bricks where the mortar had come loose.

 

The last time I'd seen the place had been when he moved in. It was in Gramercy, so he was already paying at least four times more than he needed to. But Sebastian's priorities weren't like other people's priorities.

 

 He'd hired a decorator. Or possibly slept with one. That was my brother in a nutshell. And, as usual, I was going to bail him out of trouble.

 

I threw open the closet door to find no fewer than twenty designer suits. "You've got to be kidding me, Seb. How do you afford this stuff?" I guess there are perks to working for _Vanity Fair_ , no matter what it is you're writing about.

 

I pulled one out of the closet and checked the label. _Valentino_. The wool felt like heaven.

 

_I won't promise you anything. You know how quickly I could fuck this up._

 

Seb had laughed. "You'll be fantastic. You know more about this shit than I do anyway."

 

Well, yes. But I wasn't _him_. I wasn't Sebastian Messaline, playboy journalist. Writing a dissertation about the philosophy of war wasn't anything like interviewing the hottest candidate to run for Congress since a certain President.

 

"Vi! Shut the fuck up. This is your chance." There had been something inexplicably urgent in Seb's voice. "Do the interview. I promise, you won't regret it."

 

I just had to be Sebastian Messaline for an afternoon. How hard could it be?

 

***

 

Orsino was supposed to be going to a benefit gala at Lincoln Center and Seb was supposed to meet him in his Upper East Side apartment beforehand, for an interview lasting no more than forty minutes.

 

Instead, we ended up talking for three hours.

 

And the one thing that got left out? That I was actually Viola Messaline, Sebastian's twin sister.

 

Oh, _fuck_.

 

***

 

I agreed to meet him for dinner the next night. He suggested a place a few blocks away from his house that had, according to him, the best _escargot_ in New York.

 

I'd left no fewer than four messages for Seb. I was torn between going to dinner and flying to Amsterdam to kill him personally for leaving me in this mess. But the only thing I could focus on for more than five seconds at a stretch was Orsino's smile. Also, his hands. And the fact that his hair flopped onto his forehead and it was all I could do not to kiss him.

 

Except that I was still wearing Seb's thousand-dollar suit and there was no way in _hell_ that I was going to run that risk. For me or for him.

 

"You're one hell of a bright young man," he was saying, tucking into a fresh plate of beef _carpaccio_. "But you haven't interviewed Olivia yet, have you?"

 

Olivia Contese. She was the other candidate in the state primary, who had lost to Orsino by a hair-raising margin. Impeccable credentials, pristine public image--and since her brother's death in Iraq, she'd been getting twice the airtime that Orsino had. Of course, there were rumours of mismanagement in her campaign staff that some of political blogs had picked up on (not the TV news yet; this was apparently outside their purview, although they spent half an hour talking about her shoes on _The Today Show_ ). Whatever she was doing, she was keeping under pretty tight cover.

 

Orsino was looking at me, and there was a strange kind of desperation in his eyes. "I need her. You don't understand. I need her to support me in the general election. Otherwise, we're fucked."

 

"You want me to work for you." I guess I shouldn't have expected any better. That's what I get for letting animal instincts get the better of me. "Is that it?"

 

"Would you be willing to...broach the subject? In an otherwise perfectly legitimate interview?"

 

I should have said no. My brother still had some tiny scrap of journalistic integrity, after all. But I decided that Sebastian deserved to sacrifice that, having left me to do his dirty work while he enjoyed an extended vacation with his possibly hypothetical boyfriend in Amsterdam.

 

***

 

Olivia was just as attractive in person as she was on camera, which said something. Also, I could tell--even if Seb would have stayed cheerfully oblivious for weeks--that she was interested. Was this how it was to be him? I wasn't sure how I felt about that.

 

"You're from _Vanity Fair_. Interesting choice to interview Orsino first, when I'm closer to your demographic."

 

I resolved once again to kill Seb the next time I saw him. I'd had a text from him that morning, something about the most amazing brownies he'd ever eaten in his life. Bastard. Because, the fact was that I _idolized_ Olivia Contese. I'd written my undergrad thesis on her, for crying out loud. I wanted to _be_ this woman.

 

Fuck Sebastian. And fuck Orsino too. I looked up from the half-filled notecards and began to ask her about what I _really_ wanted to know.

 

By the end of it, I was nearly as exhilarated as I was after my first interview with Orsino. Olivia saw me to the door herself. "You're more than you seem, Mr Messaline."

 

"I get that a lot," I said, trying for Seb's careless drawl and ending up halfway to Georgia. "You're...look, you're an inspiration to--to a lot of people. I just want you to know that."

 

She frowned a little. "Thank you, Mr Messaline. That's very kind of you. I'm afraid I do have to pass on my regrets to Mr Orsino if he doesn't change his mind on those tax breaks." As I reached the sidewalk, she called after me, "But you'll come again, won't you?"

 

"Sure thing."

 

Things just got a whole lot more complicated. Especially when, five minutes later, she texted me and invited me to dinner at her apartment.

 

***

 

"There isn't _anything_ you can do?" Orsino ran his fingers through his hair, sinking miserably into the backseat of the limo. "She won't do it?"

 

"Sorry." I leant back against the seat. "You can't seduce her, you know. That's not how she works."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"Olivia's smarter than that. She knows you won't compromise as much as she wants." I had to tilt my head a bit more than I'd have liked before he came into focus properly. "Can't you give her something? Even a little?"

 

Orsino laughed. "Maybe a little." He was looking at me now, and his smile was turning my insides to butter. "You got us talking. There's that, at least."

 

I don't know what I said. Something appropriate. Or maybe not, because that was when I kissed him.

 

It was the most amazing kiss I'd ever experienced. Except for the part where he still thought I was a guy.

 

***

 

"Seb! You fucking _bastard_ , where the _fuck_ have you been?"

 

"Oh, my God, Vi, you have _no_ idea--"

 

"Cut the crap, Seb. When are you getting your lazy ass back here?" I was in his apartment again, going through the rapidly shrinking selection of clean shirts. No way in hell I was paying for his dry cleaning. "I can't do this anymore."

 

"What's going on?"

 

"I kissed him. I _kissed him_."

 

"Who?"

 

"Who else, you tool? Orsino."

 

"You kissed _Orsino_?" He dissolved into laughter, and I groaned. "Oh, my God, Vi, you need to write a tell-all or something."

 

"Shut up. This is all your fault and you know it."

 

"I wanted to get you out of your rut! That's all! I totally did not expect you to fuck the guy."

 

"Who said anything about fucking him?" I sighed, sinking down onto the couch. "What rut?"

 

"You know what rut. The one where you wake up every morning, tell everyone you're working on an article, and spend the day doing nothing but reading political blogs instead. Vi, I'm not an idiot."

 

I was still stuck on the rut. "That isn't a rut. That is part of my process. How am I supposed to be at all informed if I don't read up on current events?"

 

"Vi, stop lying. You haven't written a word."

 

The worst part was that he was right. I'd defended my doctorate six months ago and hadn't done a damn thing since. I was supposed to be revising, to be staying current on scholarship and being part of that scholarship, but it hadn't happened. Instead, I'd turned into a bum.

 

"But was this _really_ the only thing you could come up with?"

 

"I was thinking on the fly! I mean, I knew I had that interview and I knew I could just call and cancel it, but Anthony was reading this book about a girl who dresses up as a boy to...I don't remember why she did it, but it gave me that idea."

 

"How much weed were you smoking? Tell me the truth."

 

"Um." I could _see_ the sheepish grin on his face at that point, and couldn't restrain a snort of laughter. "Okay. Maybe there were flaws in that plan."

 

"Flaws, my ass. Seb, you need to get back here. You have no idea. It's not just him."

 

"What?"

 

"He sent me after Olivia Contese. To try and get her support for the general election. I...I think she likes me too."

 

"And you're complaining?"

 

"They both think I'm _you_ , you fucker. Get your ass back here or I will come to Amsterdam and personally kill you."

 

Hanging up on him was satisfying.

 

***

 

Olivia lived in a gorgeous apartment on Riverside Drive--the kind of place I would never be able to afford. It was also the first time I'd ever seen her alone.

 

She laughed, when I pointed that out. "Yeah, I suppose you never see me without the handlers." There was a spiteful twist to her lip on the last word. "Seems to me I take more care of them than they of me."

 

I longed to ask her more, but she waved away my questions. "Do you ever turn off your inner journalist, Sebastian?"

 

"Guess not," I said, ducking my head. "Do you ever turn off your inner politician?"

 

"What do you think I'm doing now?" Before I knew what was happening, she was kissing me. And I, much to my surprise, was kissing her back.

 

"Wow," I heard myself say, sounding idiotically breathless. "That...wasn't what I expected."

 

She was frowning at me, and I suddenly felt the cold rush of dread. "I've heard of you, Sebastian Messaline. Your reputation precedes you, as I'm sure you're aware. But this, I hadn't even conceived of."

 

"Of...what?" I croaked.

 

"You're a woman. Or," she added quickly, holding up her hands, "I know, sometimes physical and mental genders don't match up and I'm lucky enough that mine do, but--"

 

"Oh..." For half a second, I actually considered it. But I couldn't. "No. It isn't that. It's...considerably stupider. And if you'd rather not hear it, I'll go."

 

"No, I'll hear it."

 

I thought I was scared before my defence. I was wrong.

 

 

***

 

My phone beeped plaintively from my bag. A text from Seb. _At Schiphol. Arriving JFK at 4PM EST. Bringing Anthony. Be nice_.

 

For about three seconds, I regretted it. But there wasn't any profit in that.

 

Viola Messaline was going to be herself again.


End file.
